Road to Nowhere
by Slivering
Summary: Set during S1. Sick!Sam, Big Brother Dean. - "One hand on the steering wheel, Dean shot his brother a look. There was clearly something wrong with Sam, but for the life of him, Dean couldn't figure out what." Sam is diagnosed with leukemia, and Dean tries to hold it together. Long fic.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _I probably shouldn't start another fic since I have about a half-dozen incomplete stories lounging around, but I'm fresh to the supernatural fandom, and I just couldn't resist. Besides, what's better than some hurt!Sam, protective!Dean, and a big helping of angst and fluff? That's right. Nothing. At all._

* * *

"Enjoying the view, sunshine?" Dean said.

The eldest Winchester grunted, knee-deep in a pile of dirt. With a short groan, he swung another scoop of mud behind him, watching as it flew half-haphazardly into the grass. Sure, Dean was fit – he'd the spent the majority of his life chasing demons and running after stray spirits – but even he had a limit. "It's a simple salt and burn," Sam had said.

Yeah, _simple._ Except for the part where they had to dig the hell out of a grave.

His back ached, his muscles straining from the long day of work. It was dark out; the trees were an eerie group of fugitives, huddling together with entwining branches. From his peripheral vision, Dean could see Sam with his hands on his knees, shovel resting on his left shoulder.

Damn if that kid wasn't helping.

"Don't worry, Princess," Dean said. "I'll dig this whole thing up for you. Wouldn't want to get dirt on that pretty face of yours."

Sam didn't say anything. He'd been oddly quiet during the hunt. Usually he'd be blathering on and on, talking about famous historical figures, geographical phenomena, the art of learning Latin. You named it, and Sammy launched into a long lecture about it. But today… Dean's eyes swerved over to Sam, where his little brother had his lips set in a straight line. Dirt smudged Sam's cheeks, and his hair was a wild mess on his forehead. He breathed heavily; eyelids fluttering with fatigue.

Dean paused, resting the shovel on the ground. "You okay?"

Sam blinked. It took him a moment to break out of whatever spell he was in. "Yeah." Sam took a deep breath, and stuck his shovel into the hard dirt. "I'm fine, Dean." He eyed his brother. "Just tired."

"Let's speed things up then," Dean said, concerned gaze still on Sam. "We'll be here all night if you don't pitch in."

"Right – uh – sorry." Sam tossed dirt over his shoulder, pushing the shovel deep into the soil. "I was just…"

 _Distracted?_

 _Tired?_

 _Hiding something?_

Dean squinted, trying to gain some ground on what the hell was wrong with Sammy. But Sam was stone-faced, swinging dirt out of the way in a newfound rapid pace. Maybe the kid was telling the truth. Maybe Sam was just tired.

Shrugging, Dean nodded in approval, and returned his shovel to the ground. With both of them working quickly, the salt and burn was done before midnight. After preening the grave back to perfection, the both of them stumbled wearily into the Impala. The moon was high in the air as Dean turned on the engine.

Sam sat in the passenger seat, shivering in his beige coat.

Dean ramped up the heating, and started down the twisting road. "You cold?" Dean asked.

"A little," Sam said, still distant.

There was an uncomfortable pause, and Dean forced a grin. "Maybe it's because you're literally a bean pole. Geez, Sammy, what do you eat all day, salad?" It was a joke, yeah – but not completely. Because as Dean watched the slope of Sam's neck, the long, lanky limbs that were his legs, he couldn't help but notice how thin Sam looked.

He'd definitely lost some weight. Dean had presumed it was from all of the exercise from hunting, but he suddenly wasn't so sure.

"I'm ordering a party-sized pizza when we get back to the hotel," Dean said.

"I'm not hungry," Sam said.

"You're not a hungry my ass," Dean said. "I'm shoving pizza down your throat if it's the last thing I do tonight."

Sam's gaze flickered – a mixture of annoyance and fatigue – and he slouched in the Impala's leather seats. "I'm not hungry," he repeated.

One hand on the steering wheel, Dean shot his brother a precarious look. There was clearly something off with his little sibling, but for the life of him, Dean couldn't figure out what. Tired? Yeah, okay, they'd had a long day. But never hungry? Losing weight? Worry gnawed in his stomach, a churning sensation of _god, this poor kid._

"It's about Jessica, isn't it?" Dean finally said.

Sam tensed – then his shoulders relaxed. "No," he mumbled. "It hurts about her. But it's not that. I'm just not hungry."

Dean had known Sam long enough to know when he was lying and when he was telling the truth. Unfortunately, Sam had spoken with nothing but honesty. Dean drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, speeding past a blur of forests and empty land. He'd been certain Sam's unusual behaviour had to do with Jessica's death, but now… Dean's eyes unwillingly flicked over to Sam again.

The younger Winchester had his head resting on the windowsill, eyes closed. He looked ghostly pale.

Dean swallowed. "I'm going to crank up some Zeppelin. That okay?"

Sam lifted his head, and shot him an incredulous look. "Dude, it's midnight!"

Dean was relieved to hear the sassiness in Sam's tone. It brought color to his face. "It's never too late for Zeppelin," Dean reasoned.

"I'm not listening to your loud-ass music," Sam grumbled. He sunk lower in the seat, trying to get comfortable with his long legs crumpled underneath the car space. But then the light left his face, and Sam's eyes closed again, a barely visible frown creasing his mouth. Dean stared at him for the longest time, hand resting on the music player.

"It's called quality entertainment," Dean said.

Sam didn't reply.

Dean's hand stayed on the music player, but they drove the rest of the way home in silence.

…..

"At least eat one slice," Dean pressed.

" _Dean,_ " Sam said, and he rubbed his face in frustration. He knew Dean meant well – his big brother _always_ did – but that didn't mean it didn't get on Sam's nerves. They were sitting on opposite twin beds in their current hotel of residence, and Sam's body was begging for sleep. He was exhausted- from the strands of coconut brown hair on his head to the nail of his big toe. His eyes were like heavy weights, and his joints ached.

"Don't _Dean_ me," Dean said, stuffing another slice of pizza in his mouth. "We can sit here all day Sam, but you're not hitting that bed until you eat one slice."

"You're not my boss," Sam said, but he wasn't really trying to start a fight. He was just so damn tired. The warm comfort of the bed was tantalizing, and Sam stretched his legs out against the blanket. His socked toes reached the end of the bed, and he allowed himself to close his eyes just for a second.

"Sam!" Dean barked.

Sam sighed, eyes fluttering open. Dean was like a second Dad – which meant a second drill sergeant. With grudging reluctance, Sam picked up the slice of vegetable-topped pizza, scrutinized it as if it was covered with beetles, and took a small bite. All he could taste was cardboard, and he swallowed down sandpaper.

"I'm not – look, I'll eat something." Sam's shoulders were hunched. "M'not hungry right now." His words slurred at the end, but he was too sleepy to be embarrassed.

Dean stared at him with a face full of uncertainty. "Damn it Sam…"

"Rest is good," Sam pointed out. "Very healthy."

Sam earned a smirk from Dean there – but it was more of a twist between a smile and a frown. He could see the wheels in Dean's head turning, oily machinery debating: _Should I let Sammy off the hook? Am I horrible big brother if I do that? Is sleep more important, or food?_ Finally – and thankfully – Dean said in a resigned voice:

"Fine. But tomorrow morning, I'm making my famous eggs, and you're eating them no matter what."

Sam smiled drowsily. "Your eggs suck."

Dean pretended to be dramatically shocked and hurt, and Sam snorted, shaking his head. Still dressed in sweatpants and his jacket, he immediately pounced under the covers. Warm enveloped him immediately – and heat radiating into his tired body. "Mmm…" Sam moaned, and buried his face in his pillow. "So good."

"You sound like you're having sex," Dean said impishly.

Sam didn't respond – sex sounding like too much work at the moment – and let sleep blur his consciousness. Behind him, Dean was putting salt around the doors and windows. Then the lights shut off, there was mild cursing, and a stretch of silence.

"Hey Sam?"

Sam didn't respond, engrossed in warmth.

"Night," Dean said.

There wasn't a reply right away, but then Sam mumbled something between "Dean" and "Nnghh" and Dean grinned into darkness.

….

"Now that's just nasty."

It was 5 AM in the morning, and Sam's face was flushed pink. He felt disgustingly sticky, heat radiating off of his gangly body. His white shirt was soaked to the bone, and his bed sheets were pooled in excess sweat. Sam shivered; then snorted at his own actions – and wondered how someone could ever sweat that much in under five hours.

Body flushed, Sam stepped out of the bed, letting the covers drop to the floor. He knew he smelled like sweat and grime, and he wanted badly to take a shower.

But he was still tired, and he trembled on his feet.

On the other side of the room, Dean just stared at him like Sam was an unearthly Cyclops. In contrast to Sam, Dean was fresh-faced, clad in new clothes, and strapping guns into his duffle bag. Heaving the bag over his shoulder, he shot Sam another once-over.

"Pretty gross, Sammy," Dean said.

"Yeah, well," Sam said, unable to come up with a comeback. Because it _was_ gross. His sheets were sweat-soaked, and so was his shirt. "I guess it got hot."

"Sure, with the air conditioning going full-blast," Dean said. His face was wary. "Dude, are you on something?"

"No." Sam fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeve. "I'm going to take a shower. I'll be out in ten."

Dean eyed him critically. "Better make it twenty."

Sam flushed darker, and hurried into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. Stupid Dean. Now that he was behind closed doors, Sam's tense shoulders unravelled. He slumped forward, hands clenched around the edge of the sink counter. Head down, Sam stared at the white sink bowl.

Dizzy. Exhausted.

He thought getting a good night's sleep would have helped, but he was just as tired as he'd been last night.

He didn't know what had been going on with him lately. Every day, he woke up lethargic and lazy. His legs refused to move. His eyes refused to stay awake. His head refused to not spin. Pushing back his hair with his hand, Sam stared at himself. He'd lost some weight. He no longer looked like Dean's badass sidekick ( _sidekick –_ Sam was not fond of the term, but admittedly, Dean usually called the shots), but a weary, exhausted college student who'd been pulling all-nighters for exam after exam.

"C'mon Sam," Sam told himself. "Get it together."

He wanted to get it together. Jessica's killer was still out there, and Sam had to find it. He felt a bubble of rage under the layers of apathy, and Sam smiled briefly. Even dead, Jessica made him feel alive, if even for a moment.

Stripping off his sweaty clothes, Sam stepped into the shower. He turned the cold water on full-blast, and relished as the sweat slipped away into the drain. He shampooed his floppy hair, and came out fifteen minutes later, towel wrapped around his waist. The cold water had given him a morning boost, and he felt a little better.

Until he looked in the mirror and saw the dark purple bruise on his lower abdomen.

Sam stared at the bruise for the longest time, beads of wetness trailing down his nape from his wet hair. Since when did… since when did that get there? He got bruises all the time, but this was distinctly visible, and Sam didn't remember it at all. He lightly brushed the purple area. Maybe he'd gotten hurt and hadn't realized it? Sam swallowed, hand falling back to his side. The heavy cloud of fatigue came back, and Sam's eyes stung.

He was so _confused a_ nd _tired_ and _sick_ of everything.

He had no idea what the fuck was going on with him.

Unable to tear his eyes away from the bruise, Sam stared, wallowing in his own pity. He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Get your ass moving, Sam! We've got an angry spirit to hunt down!"

Right.

Spirits. Hunting.

Sam took a deep breath. He brought the towel up to his shoulders instead (like a chick, as Dean would say), and got out of the bathroom. Dean's back was facing him, and the distinct smell of eggs had filled the room.

Sam wrinkled his nose as a fit of nausea overcame his stomach.

Eggs. _Gross_.

"Hey," Dean said, but he had a weird look on his face. "Hurry it up. I've got a lead on this next case."

"Oh yeah?" Sam asked as he tugged a sweater over his head.

"Yeah, uh – there's this local legend. Something about this guy who killed his wife by slitting her eyes out." He grimaced.

"Pleasant," Sam hummed.

"I know," Dean said. He pointed to the simmering white and yellow globs on the pan. "I made my famous eggs."

"They're not famous."

"Well, you're eating them."

There was a moment of silence.

Sam had finished getting changed, and now stared morosely at the eggs like Dean had told him to eat a pile of vampire piss. Dean wasn't sure what was up with his baby brother, but something was definitely wrong. Sam still looked tired, for one thing, and all of that sweat? Dean had acted like it was all gross and shit, but deep down, Dean was worried as hell.

It wasn't normal to sweat that much at night.

But Dean forced the issue away, and swallowed it down. He didn't want to be overbearing – not until it was necessary.

"You're eating," Dean repeated.

Sam shrugged, hands shoved in his pockets. "I dunno. I was thinking we could just grab something on the way – y'know, coffee, a donut."

"Seriously?" Dean faced him. "I already made the damn food. I know they're not all that good, but they're eggs. I can't mess 'em up that bad."

"Yeah, but… I just don't like eggs."

Dean studied him. "Since when?"

Sam squirmed uncomfortably. "Since… now?"

It was a pathetic excuse if Dean had ever heard one.

Wiping his greasy hand against the side of his pants, Dean set the plate of eggs on the table. "Eat," he commanded.

"Dean." Sam shifted his weight. "I'm 22. You're not…"

"I'm not what?" Dean asked, fire in his eyes. "I'm not allowed to make sure my baby brother doesn't starve himself to death?"

Sam rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm not hungry."

Dean threw his hands in the air. "Great! He's not _hungry,_ he says. Dammit, Sam. You weren't hungry last night either."

Sam offered a meek look of apology. "Maybe I'm catching the flu."

"Yeah." Dean rolled his eyes. "Maybe."

There was a tense moment in which Dean slammed pots and pans in the kitchen sink, and Sam was too tired to laugh at how domestic his big brother looked. After Dean was done, Dean grabbed dad's journal, and slung his bag over his shoulder. "Alright, let's go see if we can talk to some of the locals," he said.

Sam nodded, grateful that the eggs had been avoided for the time being.

As Dean locked the hotel room, Sam felt his stomach lurch, and a wave of dizziness ran over him. For a moment, he stumbled – but caught his balance as he steadied his vision. He was glad Dean hadn't noticed, walking in long strides in front of him. Pushing away the pressing _whatever the hell was going on with him,_ Sam straightened up, and trailed after Dean to chase their next hunt.

Sam was sure he was fine.

Yeah, he was dizzy, sweaty, thin, and had unexplainable bruises, but it wasn't a big deal.

It was probably just the flu or something.

Nothing serious.

Nothing Sam couldn't handle.

There _was_ a pressing weight in the back of his mind that said _this could be worse than you think_ but in true Winchester fashion, Sam ignored the warning signs, squared his shoulders, and followed his big brother out into the open air.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** _Thanks for all the lovely reviews. As a heads up, this story won't feature later characters. There'll be some John in it, but its set in season 1, way before the brothers meet Castiel, Crowley, etc. Hope this chapter satisfies, and I appreciate any reviews! Also, I wanted to mention, as a quick disclaimer, that I don't have personal experience with cancer. I'm trying my best to convey it realistically, but if I mess up, please know that I'm not trying to offend anyone, and I'm not making light of the situation. Thanks for reading!_

* * *

"Why would the FBI care about local legends?"

"We try to work every angle," Dean said, fake badge strapped to his jacket. He leaned forward, twitching eagerly. "Now, that spirit you were talking about?"

The man in front of him shifted uncomfortably, looking disturbed and uncertain. But after a moment, he cleared his throat, and said, "It's all a bunch of bullshit if you ask me, but they said… that there was this guy who cut out his wife's eyes after she forgot to make him dinner this one night." The guy shrugged. "Back when society was sexist, and all, you know? They say the woman haunts the town now, killing any guy who treats his wife unfairly."

Dean pretended to be taking notes. "And, your neighbor, Mr. Jonathon, the guy who was killed… did he display… sexist behavior?"

The man raised his brow. "It's a _myth,_ " he emphasized.

"I know, sir, but again, we like to get all the facts down." Dean discretely rolled his eyes toward his brother Sam, but Sam wasn't paying attention to him. He was looking far off into space, sipping idly on his coffee. His face was a shade paler, and his lashes fluttered shut – then snapped open, as if remembering that he was supposed to be awake.

Dean gave him a worried glance. Sam's nightmares – _visions_ – were really doing a number on him.

He would hassle him about it later, but they had a hunt to focus on. Dean returned his attention to the man. "Right… so… sexist behaviour?"

The man shrugged. "Rick Jonathon was always sort of a dick. I remember him yelling and screaming at his wife once, for not… what was it? For suggesting they share the housework." The man scratched his head. "Yeah, that was it. She said he should help out with the cleaning. Then one day later, he was dead. Eyes slit open."

Dean glanced at Sam again, hoping to gain some facial input (eyebrow raise, a brief nod) but Sam's eyes were glued to the ground.

"Alright, thanks, man," Dean said.

"Legends aren't real though," the man said. "It's just a coincidence that he was an ass."

"Of course. Spirits, real?" Dean snorted. "Please, we're professionals, Mr. Connors."

"Sure you are." The man's eyes flitted toward Sam. "I would watch out for your partner though. Bleeding on the scene ain't too professional if you ask me." Then the man floundered away, eager to get lost. Dean froze, and his head whipped toward Sam. Bleeding? What the hell was he talking about?

Then Dean saw Sam, and his heart dropped.

Sam's head was down, soft hair falling over his forehead, but Dean could see the blood dripping from Sam's nose. Thick red liquid.

"Dude, you're bleeding!" Dean exclaimed.

Sam blinked. "Huh?"

"Your nose…" Dean grimaced. "You're… uh… bleedin' from your nose."

Sam looked like he was in a daze, but slowly, he reached a hand out and touched the blood on his face. His brow creased, and his eyes widened. "Shit," he said, looking back to see the redness on his fingers. "I didn't even notice."

Dean stared at him. "Yeah, you don't seem to notice much of anything these days."

Sam wrinkled his nose, blood pouring down his nose. He looked helplessly at Dean.

"Well, don't just stand there," Dean snapped, his worry and concern bursting out in a rush of frustration. "Tilt your head forward, pinch off the flow… you know the drill, don't you?"

"I haven't had a nosebleed since I was seven," Sam said, but he did as told – lifted his chin, and reached his hand to pinch the midsection of his nose. They didn't have any tissues unfortunately – they were standing outside the city neighborhood, nothing but Sam's coffee and Dean's gun in their possession.

"Here, give me your coffee," Dean said.

Sam handed it to him, still trying to pinch off the flow. The blood trickled down his nose and down his chin, dark spots hitting the pavement. Dean rolled his tongue over the rim of his teeth, and looked away. No matter how many times it had happened, it never got easier to see Sam hurting. Even if it was just from a nosebleed.

"It's not stopping," Sam mumbled.

"Be patient," Dean said, but his voice was anything but. "It'll work. Just wait."

Sam shifted his weight, and didn't respond.

After five minutes, the nosebleed finally stopped, but Sam was a mess – blood smeared his face and hands, and redness stained the collar of his shirt. Dean's expression was grim. The nosebleed, by itself? It wouldn't have been a concern. But the way Sam had been acting for the past few days…

"You okay, man?" Dean asked.

Sam grunted. "I'm…. fine."

Sam was a liar – clear as day.

But Dean let it go for now, and touched his younger brother's shoulder lightly – a subtle show of affection. "Let's get you cleaned up."

"Okay, Dean." Sam closed his eyes. "I'm okay… I'm… okay."

Dean briefly wondered who he was trying to convince, then shook his head and led Sam to their room.

….

After the bleeding debacle, a shower, and Dean forcing chips and guacamole down Sam's throat, the two of them sat on the twin beds, discussing the case. Sam swallowed repeatedly, trying to get the taste of avocado out of his mouth. Was it just him, or did everything taste like cardboard? Eyeing Dean who was still cramming salty chips in his mouth gave him his answer.

It was just him.

"Slow down," Sam advised.

Dean munched happily. "No can do," he said through a mouthful. "Chips and guacamole? Kickass combination."

Sam arched a brow. "We're not here to stuff ourselves. We're here to work on the case."

Dean paused, chip hovering near his lips. His eyes narrowed. "Don't _you_ give me this crap. I was the only one getting any information today out of the locals. You just stood there like a frozen statue, staring at… I dunno, ants or whatever!"

Sam shrunk, and looked away. Dean immediately felt a surge of guilt that he fought to push away.

"I'm just saying," Dean said. "You've been acting hella weird, Sammy."

"Just tired," Sam said, voice barely audible. It wasn't a lie – not really. He was _exhausted_ to the bone. Even sitting with Dean on the bed was taking up his energy, and he wanted nothing more than to snuggle back under the covers. But it was only 12 PM, and Sam knew he still had to make it through at least eight more hours.

"Is it the nightmares?" Dean asked.

"No…." Sam paused. "Yeah."

"That helps," Dean said sarcastically.

Sam pinched his nose. "I don't know, okay? Maybe."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" Dean grumbled. "You're either having nightmares or you're not!"

Sam wasn't sure what to tell Dean. He was still occasionally having nightmares, but Sam didn't think that the reason he was so tired. It wasn't just sleepiness that was taking a toll on him. It was this indescribable aching… this constant presence of fatigue. Even though he'd slept deeply the whole night, he'd woken up feeling wrought and tired.

"I think I'm getting sick," Sam said. "The flu… or something."

"Sick?" Dean looked at him with a ridiculous expression. "We're Winchesters."

Sam shifted on the bed. "So?"

"Winchesters don't get the flu."

Sam rolled his eyes. "How? Are we magically immune?"

"Yes," Dean insisted.

"Then I'm not a Winchester," Sam said stubbornly.

"Like hell you're not," Dean said, and he quirked a smile. "It's in your blood. You're one of us, Sam. Whether you like it or not."

The statement was said with warmth, and peace washed over Sam at the words. Growing up, he'd always felt a little out of place with Dean and his dad. They'd always been such naturals at hunting. Dean handled guns like he was born to use them, and John never messed up a case. Sam… he'd been the nerdy, lanky outcast of the family.

Even in college, even at 22, now an adult, he still felt that inkling of being left out.

But Dean had said, _You're one of us, Sam. Whether you like it or not._

He tried to hide his smile, but it was no use. Dean stared at him, studying his face. An understanding passed between them. Then Dean cleared his throat, clearly trying to avoid a chick flick moment, and slapped some articles onto the table.

"I did some research while you were showering," Dean said. "It looks like we've got an angry spirit on our hands."

Sam nodded, forehead furrowing as he bent over the page. He scanned it. "So the spirit's murdering… sexist men?"

"Looks like it," Dean said.

"Alright, so do we know where she was buried?"

"Cremated," Dean said.

Sam sighed. "Of course." His lips creased. "You think there's some object then? Some kind of possession?"

"She's not just haunting one house," Dean pointed out. "It's got to be something in the city."

Sam twisted his lips, deep in thought. "What about the eyeballs?"

Dean gave him a flippant look. " _What_?"

"The… eyeballs." Sam gestured with his hands. "The husband slit out her eyeballs, didn't he? Were they like… put away or something?"

"That's disgusting," Dean said accusingly.

"I'm just saying," Sam said. "Maybe it's the eyeballs."

"Gross."

Sam agreed, and his stomach tightened – a short wave of nausea passed over him. It wasn't because of the thought of the slit eyeballs, although that was pretty horrific. He'd been feeling queasy all day, the coffee and guacamole having settled uncomfortably in his stomach. Trying to push aside the feeling, he inhaled sharply and said, "I think it's worth checking out."

"Where?" Dean said. "Are we just going to walk around hoping to bump into a pair of eyeballs?"

Sam shook his head. "Maybe the hospital still has remains of her."

Dean looked skeptical. "You really think it's her eyeballs?"

"I don't know," Sam said. "But it's a theory. Got any better ones?"

"Watch the tone," Dean teased. "I'm the big brother, you know."

Sam tried to smile, or give a comeback, but his stomach lurched again. He bit his lower lip, and closed his eyes, uneasiness sweeping over his body. His head throbbed, and his eyelids weighed down on him like they were carrying dumbbells. Hands clenching around his jean-clad thighs, Sam waited for the nausea to pass.

When his eyes flickered open, Dean was staring at him, a troubled expression on his face. "Sam," he said softly, voice full of apprehension. "What's the matter?"

Sam opened his mouth –wanting to reply – but then he suddenly grabbed the chip bowl Dean had emptied, leaned his head in, and vomited out the contents of his breakfast.

…

"Easy, Sam. Easy."

They had moved to the bathroom, Sam kneeling on the white-tiled floor, head bent over the porcelain toilet bowl. He retched silently, shoulders shaking, one hand gripping the edge of the lid. His face was ghastly and lacked color, and he panted from exhaustion. Swallowing audibly, he threw up once more, a series of stringy fluid escaping his mouth.

Dean wrinkled his nose, but kept one hand firmly clamped on Sam's shoulder.

"D'n…" Sam slurred.

"Don't say anything," Dean said, restless. "Just… just throw up, or whatever."

Sam obeyed, and vomited once more, gagging through his teeth. His forehead was clammy with sweat. His chest rose and fell, threatening to inject another dose of nausea into his stomach. Dean slowly moved his hand down from Sam's shoulder and tentatively rubbed his back, feeling awkward but obliged to do so.

"You're okay, Sammy. Just hang in there." Dean looked guilty. "Maybe I shouldn't have force-fed you that guacamole…"

"Not… your… fault…"

Sam made a sound between a groan and a moan, and let out another round of puke. His jean-clad knees dug into the tile floor, and his hair stuck to his sweaty forehead. His vision flickered – a series of black dots gathering around the corners – and he blinked rapidly. It cleared up again, and he forced himself to go still.

Dean kept his open palm on Sam's back, rubbing small circles. After a brief moment, he asked, "You done?"

Sam shuddered once, anticipating another round – then stopped, and slumped his shoulders. "Yeah. I think I'm good."

They stayed unmoving for some time – Sam hunched over the toilet bowl, drained of energy, and Dean standing over him, hand resting on his back. Dean chewed on his lower lip, fresh worry building up like the storm before a hurricane. Maybe Sam really did have the flu. He felt like a bastard now, for saying, "Winchesters don't get sick."

It was a stupid sort of pride thing, and Sam wasn't – no matter how much Dean insisted – immune to germs.

They may have been hunters, but they were both still human. Sometimes Dean forgot that.

Clearing his throat, Dean slapped Sam lightly on the back. "I'll get you some water."

"Okay," Sam mumbled, not making a move to get up.

Dean took one last glance at Sam in the bathroom, then ambled over to the kitchen to get a glass of water. When he returned, Sam was still in the same position, bent over the toilet bowl. This time his eyes were closed, and he was breathing softly.

"Hey," Dean said awkwardly. "Water."

Sam's eyes rose to meet his, and he fumbled for the glass. "Thanks."

Dean didn't reply, and watched as Sam took long gulps. Worry pressed into every corner of his mind, and Dean hated it. He hated how his stomach twisted with anxiety, the way guilt foraged his brain for battle. When they were kids, Dean had always been insanely protective of Sam. But Sam was an adult now.

He knew Sam could handle himself.

But right now he looked so _young,_ and it hit Dean like a bullet that Sam was still just a college student.

Clean-shaved, fresh-faced, bright-eyed…

He felt like Dean's kid brother all over again.

Hell, he _was_ Dean's kid brother.

Except now he was over six feet tall, and killed supernatural monsters in his spare time.

Dean chuckled to himself, and before he could stop himself, found himself threading his hand through Sam's thick, sweaty hair. Sam froze, glass of water raised to his lips. They met eyes, and Dean made sure he had his _everything will be okay as long as I'm here_ face on. Sam relaxed a fraction.

"The case," Sam said hoarsely.

Dean smiled fondly, and with amusement. Sam was such an overachiever. "Relax," Dean said. "I'll take care of it." It was said with determination, the kind of protective comfort Dean hadn't used in years. He was taking over. He'd always fixed everything for Sammy before, and there was no reason he wouldn't now. He'd never let Sam down. That was a promise. "I'll take care of it," Dean said again, a whisper to himself, a promise, an unwilling, unbendable declaration.

And Sam just paused, then nodded, trusting that Dean would.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** _I'm not sure if this chapter's up to par. I really struggled with writing it. Usually I can bang out a chapter in an hour and a half, but this one took me three hours. I was practically pulling my hair out when it was done. Still, thanks for all the reviews, and I hope it's not too rough around the edges. Any reviews are appreciated!_

 **Warning:** In this chapter, there are some lines that can be very _mildly_ interpreted as Wincest. In my story, the brothers don't like each other that way – they're just very co-dependent on one another. However, if you get extremely mad and disgusted at anything resembling of Wincest, I would probably click the back button.

* * *

"You shouldn't even be here," Dean said, voice rough.

They were parked outside of the local police station, car stationed behind a barrel of bushes. Dean peered through the window, looking for any signs of urgency, but the place was silent. A few police men walked out with donuts in their hands, and Dean thought, _man, I'd like a donut._ He squinted at them. Were those _jelly_ donuts?

Dean wanted a jelly donut.

"You're really focused today," Sam said, ignoring the previous statement.

Dean ripped his gaze away from the donuts. He smiled inwardly, but outside, he said: "Oh, yeah, I'm focusing. Gotta be focused, Sammy."

Sam nodded, hands bunched around the sleeves of his sweater. His eyes were half-lidded. Dean had let Sam sleep away the sickness while he'd gone and burned the eyeball remains in the hospital, but he wasn't sure if their theory was right. Dean figured he'd camp out near the police station just to make sure nothing happened tonight.

The sirens and rush of police men would inform them about something unusual happening.

But Sam. Dean had tried everything sans tie Sam to the bed to convince him to stay home. He'd clearly voiced his opinion back in the hotel room: "Sam, you're not coming with me. You're fucking weak as a kindergartner right now. I can't be worried about you when there's people in danger."

But Sam, ever the stubborn one, had insisted: "I'm _fine,_ Dean. Besides, what if something happens, and you get hurt?"

Dean should have been touched that Sam cared so much about him, but instead he was just pissed off. The kid should have been curled up under the bed, fan blowing cool air on his face, resting. Not sitting next to him in the car, trying to keep alert and awake. Beside him, Sam took a sip of his second coffee.

The air outside was warm, and Dean rolled down the window. The trees smelled like wood and grass – and long, billowing branches stretched out like arms. The evening dusted on the edge of dusk, and the sunset orange sky bronzed in the horizon. It was a blessedly nice out, and Dean closed his eyes, stretching out the tense knots in his back.

If he could stay like this forever, he'd be one happy camper.

Sam drank deeply from his coffee. "Hey Dean?"

And when did Dean ever get what he wanted? Oh, right. Never.

"Yeah?" Dean said, annoyance clear in his voice.

The paper coffee cup crinkled, and unease filled the car. Dean flicked on eye open, praying Sam didn't have some piss-poor news to tell him.

Sam looked uncomfortable- the lines on his face worn, his mouth pressed together in a straight line. "I…I'm not…" He looked up at the roof of the car, shame clear on his face. For a second, Dean thought he would back out, but then Sam tiredly said, "I'm not feeling well."

Dean opened both eyes, and straightened up. He clamped his hands around the steering wheel. "I knew it."

"I thought – I thought I'd be fine. I slept so much." Sam's eyes fluttered. "But I'm just… " He took an uneven breath. "I dunno man, I just feel out of it."

"You should have stayed at the hotel," Dean snapped, teeth grit together. "I _told_ you."

"I know." There was a short pause. "I'm sorry."

The tension in the car was thicker than all seven books of the Harry Potter saga combined. Dean battled between being worried and being insanely pissed off. Sam shivered in the passenger seat, breaths long and drawn out, guilt obvious from his tense posture. But the worry won out in the end. Sam wouldn't have willingly told Dean he felt sick if it wasn't serious.

Swallowing, Dean glanced at him. "You need me to drive you back to the hotel?"

The silence was unbearable. Sam blinked rapidly. "I don't feel good," he said again.

"Yeah, you don't look so good." Dean's stomach twisted. "You have a fever?"

"I don't – I don't know." Sam struggled to comprehend what Dean was saying. There was a ringing in his ears – a loud buzzing sound that drowned out Dean's concerned voice. Sam's head felt like an axe was chopping through it. He took another shaky gulp of his coffee, hoping to fire up his brain.

But the coffee tasted like gooey syrup as it went down his aching throat, and Sam leaned forward, resting his forehead on the car's glove compartment. Why wouldn't his head stop spinning? He knew he shouldn't have tagged along with Dean, but he'd wanted to back Dean up. He didn't want to useless, or worse, a burden.

He snorted to himself. _Good fucking job at that, Sam._

"Sam?" Dean asked, voice edging on panic. "You with me?"

"Yeah." Sam's voice was slow and faraway. "I'm… just… give me a minute."

"Like hell," Dean said, cranking down on the gear. "I'm taking you home."

"Dean-" His protest was feeble.

"Feeding you some chicken noodle soup, and sending your ass to bed."

"De-"

Dean started the engine. The car was just about to roar into action when the wail of sirens caught their attention. Sam jerked his head up – his vision flickering – but caught enough to put two and two together: The eyeballs hadn't been the answer. The police were in a frenzy, rushing toward their black-and-white vehicles.

"We've gotta follow them," Sam rasped.

Dean's voice was tight when he answered: "I know."

The car swerved into action, tailing after the cops at a recklessly high speed. Dean's eyes were laser focused on the police, but the skin of his knuckles was white. Their fucking luck sucked ass. Sam looked like he was about to keel over, and the police were racing toward a potential murder-in-action.

Dean's hand clenched harder around the steering wheel. He leaned forward, and pressed down on the accelerator. Blood pumped through his body, and ire simmered beneath building panic. Dammit! He had no idea what to do. Follow them? The hunt was important. Someone might get killed (or already had been).

But Sam… Dean chanced a peek at his brother.

Sam stared dazedly in front of him, shimmering blue and red lights reflecting off of his eyes.

"You with me?" Dean asked.

"Y-yeah."

Well, didn't that sound reassuring.

Dean turned a sharp corner, then stepped down hard on the break pedal. The car screeched to a lurching stop, and Sam grunted. In front of them, a man banged on his living room window, eyes wide and frantic, mouth open with the words: "Help me." The police were steadfastly approaching the scene, badges out, guns aimed. Night had fallen, and the neighborhood was astray with panic.

Guns wouldn't do any damn good.

"What could it be?" Dean muttered. "What-"

"We have to help him," Sam managed.

Dean felt a sizzle of fire go down him. "I know that," he snapped, stressed. "But what the hell is keeping the spirit alive? C'mon Dean… think… think…" His fingers clawed into the sides of his head, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Sam was the one who usually had the eureka moments. But Sam was about as useless as a Barbie doll right now.

"Maybe…" Sam's voice was soft.

Dean snapped his head up. Gun shots resounded inside of the house. The man continued to scream in terror.

"Maybe what, Sam?"

"Maybe…" Sam blinked. "It might be… blood residue…"

"Blood residue? On what? Where?"

"I… I'm not… maybe the police station…"

"What about it?" Dean's breaths were shallow and quick. He wanted to shake his brother – tell him to hurry the hell up, the man inside the house was dying.

"For evidence," Sam murmured.

"Evidence?" Dean tried to piece the jumbled hints together. The voice inside the house grew more frantic.

"The evidence from… the knife…."

"Knife?" Dean asked, straightening up.

"Blood…"

Sam didn't finish his sentence. His eyes grew distant, and a moment later, he fell forward, his head hitting the front of the dashboard. Sam had fainted. Dean stared in horror – worry and frustration eating him inside out. Dean reached for the door handle, ready to bang out some rock salt and buy some time.

But then there was a blood-curdling scream, raised toward the sky. It was the sound of a dead man dying.

Sirens continued to wail, and Dean closed his eyes, slumped forward.

The man was dead.

And Dean Winchester, safe inside his Chevy Impala, had never been so ashamed.

… **.**

"Sam," Dean said.

He got no response. He hadn't expected one.

Sam lay curled under a barricade of blankets, face pressed into his pillow. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and shivers wracked his body. Dean stared at him, sleep heavy in his eyes, but mind unable to rest. The events of the day kept repeating in his head, and Dean felt hollow and bitter.

He'd let someone die. Sam had fainted.

 _What else are you going to let happen under your watch next, Dean?_ Dean laughed to himself – low and sad. _Going to watch Sam die next? Get killed right in front of your eyes?_

Dean bit his lower lip hard, wanting nothing more than to rewind to the morning. Or, hell, rewind to a month back, when Jessica was still alive, and his brother was happy and well. His eyes flew to Sam again. His little sibling breathed softly, but each intake seemed to strain his throat. His brows were furrowed tightly even in his sleep.

Uncharacteristically, Dean reached his hand out, and pressed his hand flat on Sam's forehead.

It was hot to touch. Dean ripped his hand away like he'd been stung.

 _He'd_ let this happen. He'd let Sam get this bad.

A frustrated growl channeled from the back of Dean's throat. His temples throbbed, and he paced around his room. Why hadn't he forced Sam to stay in the hotel? He shouldn't have listened to Sam. Dean was the big brother. He knew better. He should have locked the door and strapped Sam to the bed. Then his brother wouldn't have fainted and a man wouldn't be dead.

Dean's eyes felt suspiciously wet.

His father would have been disappointed in him. Dean swallowed hard. His dad. God, he wanted his father right now. He would have known exactly what to do. He'd have saved the man, and he'd also have taken care of Sam. He wouldn't have failed.

Not like Dean.

Dad would have…

"De…"

Dean blinked, his miserable thoughts abruptly coming to a stop. He sprung to Sam's bedside. "Sam?"

Sam's lashes uncurled. His gaze was disconcerting. "Dean…"

"Right here," Dean said. Then he realized how pathetic that sounded, and cleared his throat. "How're you feeling, Princess?" He chuckled, and the joke sounded sad even to his own ears.

Sam stared at him uncomprehendingly. "I'm… hot."

Dean attempted to joke again. "Don't flatter yourself. We all know I'm the sexier brother."

His taunt fell on deaf ears. Sam whimpered (not that Sam would _ever_ admit that), and closed his eyes again. "Hot."

Dean twisted his hands, itching to help Sam. "You want me to turn up the fan?"

"Yes, please." Sam whispered. "Also… take my shirt off."

Dean stared at him, certain he'd heard wrong. "What?"

"Hot," Sam said, and his eyes were pleading. It sickened Dean that Sam was too weak to even take his own clothes off. Nodding briefly, Dean turned on the fan. Then he walked back over to Sam. Dean gripped the ends of Sam's shirt, and gently peeled it off, tugging it over Sam's head. Sam moaned appreciatively, and sunk back into the mattress.

Dean started to smirk – wanting to tease his baby brother - but never got around to it. His mouth froze.

Bruises.

Discolored dark bruises scattered across Sam's abdomen. Blue. Black. Purple. Dean was unable to tear his gaze away from Sam's chest, heart pounding in his ears. He felt like he was going to pass out. Where did the bruises come from? He hadn't seen Sam get hurt. He'd have noticed something like that.

But there they were. The ugly bruises stared back at him. They seemed to hiss: _You failed as a brother, Dean. You failed here, and here, and also here._

Dean gulped in a lungful of panicky air. His chest tightened as if a boa constrictor had wrapped itself around him.

Because something was seriously wrong with his Sammy, and Dean suddenly desperately needed to know what.

….

Sam didn't seem to notice Dean's panic, or the fact that his bruises had been exposed. He lay on his side, head buried in his pillow. Dean doubted Sam would have noticed if a flying elephant leaped in through their window and sat on him.

"Sam," Dean said.

He didn't get a response.

"Sam," Dean said again.

This time Sam offered what sounded like a kitten mewl.

Dean rubbed his forehead, and groaned. This was hopeless. Glaring at the bruises, Dean stood up, and walked over to the kitchen. He grabbed a cloth, and drenched it with cold water. Returning to the bedside, Dean spread the wet cloth over Sam's forehead. The effect was subtle, but Dean saw Sam's forehead loosen.

The next hour was spent in a sort of hazy daze. Dean chewed his nails until they were brittle. He tried to cook chicken noodle soup and failed miserably at it. He relined the windows and doors with salt, and wiped his guns until they were squeaky clean. Sam shifted on the mattress, the bed creaking underneath him, but otherwise continued to sleep.

Worry continued to fill up Dean's hourglass, and he hit his limit at midnight.

"That's it," Dean said. He snatched Sam's laptop from Sam's backpack and flipped it open. Dean had never been a fan of computers, but he firmly believed that desperate times called for desperate measures. He was going to get to the bottom of what was going on with Sam if it was the last thing he did. Pressing the ON button (at least Dean _thought_ it was the ON button), he waited for the computer to boot up, his jaw clenched.

A second later, a screen popped up. Dean cursed softly. There was a goddamned password. His hands hovered over the keyboard. After a moment, he tried an attempt:

 _Winchester,_ Dean typed.

Incorrect.

 _Sam Winchester,_ Dean amended.

Incorrect. Dean frowned. His fingers flew over the keyboard.

 _Bitch._

Please try again in sixty seconds.

Dean scowled at the computer. "Your computer is a dick," Dean told Sam.

In a valiant attempt to defend his laptop, Sam twitched.

"Going to have to try harder than that Sammy," Dean mumbled, tapping his fingers against the bed sheet. After sixty seconds had passed, Dean stared carefully at the screen, chin propped up with his knuckles.

Tentatively, he typed: _Stanford._

Incorrect.

Dean squinted at the screen. Lip caught between his teeth, he backspaced, and typed:

 _Jessica._

Incorrect. And he'd been so sure Jessica would be right.

Dean's hand hovered above the keyboard. Maybe he should give it up. He and the computer were clearly not meant to be.

Shrugging, and, on a whim, Dean typed:

 _Dean._

He was already closing the laptop when he heard the ping. Dean shoved open to the front screen, and his heart ached right to his throat, to his eyes, bursting through his pores. He couldn't breathe for a moment, instead only able to stare at the screen. A deep swell of worthlessness pooled over his body.

Login successful.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Thanks for all the reviews, guys! It's a real treat when I'm sitting in class and I get an e-mail notifying me that someone is enjoying my story. It really brightens my day! Anyway, this chapter was hard for me to get into, but halfway through, I hit my stride. As always, all reviews are appreciated. Hope you all stick around for chapter five!

* * *

Dean sat on the laptop until 3 AM, skull bleeding through his head.

His throat was scratchy, and his hands hovered limply over the keyboard. The words on the screen blurred and danced. He'd done a quick search of Sam's symptoms: bruises, fever, fainting, nosebleeds, all of that jazz. The results had sent him into a cold sweat. Each web address had said: _Symptoms for Cancer, Leukemia: Treatments and Causes._ Dean scrolled through each page, his hands sweaty, and his lungs tight in his chest.

Leukemia.

Dean felt sick. His brother didn't have cancer.

It was… it just wasn't possible. Dean knew the website was wrong. There was no way in hell Sam Winchester had cancer. Dean's eyes flitted over to where Sam was. His brother was still sleeping deeply, having not moved for the past three hours. There was no way that his badass nerdy little brother had something as… human as cancer.

Dean shook his head furiously, and shut the laptop.

No fucking way.

It was unacceptable.

As he made himself a cup of coffee, Dean paced around the tiled-kitchen floor in nothing but socks and sweatpants. He wasn't worried. His stomach was queasy with concern, but Dean's mind knew the real truth: Sam didn't have cancer. Websites… they always tried to scare you. Hell, if Dean had a headache, and he typed it into the search bar, they'd probably claim he had a brain tumor.

Sam just had the flu.

Hadn't they said that cancer symptoms were similar to flu symptoms?

Dean nodded vigorously to himself, sipping feverishly on the mug.

Just the flu.

Despite this affirmation, Dean wasn't _completely_ daft. He knew he should probably book a dreaded Doctor's visit. Neither him nor Sam were a big fan of doctors, but sometimes they were inevitable. In the off chance that Sam _did_ have cancer (Dean snorted, waved his hand at the thought, because _no fucking way_ ), he knew it was better to have it caught early.

He balanced the phone between his shoulder and ear. "Hey, doc? Yeah, I'd like to book an appointment. For my brother. Sam. Doctor Jeff, right? Oh, right, Jack. I knew that."

"… Uh… why?" Dean glanced at Sam. The word _cancer_ flooded him whole. "Um… he fainted."

"Tomorrow morning? Yeah, thanks, that's great, Doctor Jeff – I mean, Jack."

Dean hung up on the phone, and slumped his shoulders. Dumping the rest of his coffee down the sink, he slipped into the bed, gave a precautionary glance at Sam, and then allowed himself to catch a few hours of dreamless sleep.

Because cancer? His brother?

Ridiculous.

….

"Dean…" Sam whined.

"Sammy," Dean said in an admonishing tone. "It's time to get up."

Sam tried to burrow back under the covers, but Dean swiftly ripped them off. Sam groaned, and curled his knees to his chest. The hotel room was yellow with golden sunlight, and the smell of toast and peanut butter wafted through the room. Dean swung bread into the toaster, shirt rolled up to his elbows.

Sam blinked wearily. What had happened? He was too exhausted to dwell on it. He knew he'd ruined the hunt though. He knew it was his fault for insisting to go with Dean. Sam's head pounded, and he wanted to sink back into sleep once more. Sleep was safe. Sleep didn't make him feel awful and guilty.

His eyes flickered to the clock. "Dean…. It's 5 AM."

"Yeah." Dean had a bagel stuffed in his mouth. "We've got an appointment to reach."

Sam tensed. "An… appointment?"

"Yeah. Like, you know, visiting the Doc?" Dean smirked.

"The doctor?" Sam sat up straight, hair all over the place.

Dean shrugged. "Guess you haven't been eating your apples Sammy." He snickered to himself at the joke, and Sam just resisted rolling his eyes. However, as soon as he tried to swing his legs over the bed, and stand up, blood rushed to his head. He stumbled onto the hardwood floor, barely regaining his balance.

He was so tired.

Sam closed his eyes. Dean had materialized at his side, gripping his arm.

"You okay?" Dean asked in a gruff tone.

Sam nodded, woozy. "Fine."

Dean didn't look like he believed him, and Sam didn't blame him. His body ached all over. His stomach felt like it was being blown apart. His head throbbed, and his hands trembled unwillingly. He walked slowly – embarrassingly slowly – toward the bathroom. "Shower," he mumbled. "And no doctor."

"There's no room for an argument here," Dean said. "We're taking you to the doctors."

Sam slammed the bathroom door in response, and Dean just hoped he didn't slip and fall in the shower.

….

When Sam came out, he was layered in heavy clothing. His sweater sleeves dropped over his wrists, and Sam clenched on the ends, fiddling nervously. He'd attempted to comb his hair, but it still looked unruly, stray strands curling around his ears. His eyes had dark circles underneath them, and he rocked anxiously on the heels of his feet.

"Dean," he said. "I really don't need a doctor. We have a hunt-"

"Screw the fucking hunt." Dean slammed the dish down. "And eat your fucking toast."

Sam eyed the food wearily. "People could die."

 _You could die._

Dean didn't say that. He cleared his throat. "You passed out real pretty last night, so whether you like it or not, I'm dragging your ass to the doctors." He squared his shoulders, and when Sam gave him a pleading look, sighed.

"I get it," Dean said. "The doctors fucking suck. Half the time they have no idea what they're dealing with. But do you really think your fainting was supernatural?"

"It's just the flu," Sam said.

"Didn't know the regular flu made you get random bruises on your body," Dean said bitterly.

Sam froze, eyes widening, and Dean immediately knew that Sam's memory of last night was fuzzy. He watched Sam swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Then Sam's eyes fell to the ground, his back tense as a wire. "You saw that?" he asked, voice soft.

Dean focused on spreading peanut butter on toast. "I saw enough."

"I probably got hurt – or something – "

" _Whatever._ " Dean held up his butter knife threateningly. "C'mon. Eat your food. We don't wanna be late."

The reluctance in Sam's eyes was clear as day. But thankfully, the kid didn't put up a big fight. He seemed to be resigned to his fate, and slid into the kitchen table. Dean watched as he picked up the toast, took a few small bites, and put his toast back down.

"I'm done," Sam said.

"Uh… no, you're not."

"Not hungry," Sam said.

"You ate _two_ bites," Dean accused.

"So?"

" _So?_ The bites were the size of fucking crumbs!"

A flash of the computer screen crossed Dean's mind. _Loss of appetite._ Dean pushed away the cancer symptom, denying it vehemently in his head. He reminded himself that people didn't get hungry when they had the flu either.

And that's all that Sammy had.

The flu.

The bruises… they were…

Dean shook his head.

There was just no way.

After Sam had finished eating (AKA, ate one more crumb-sized bite), he tried to stand up, but immediately swayed on the spot. Dean had been grabbing his keys from the hook, and instantly, he rushed over to Sam's side. Last time, Sam had resisted his help – however, much to Dean's concern, this time Sam didn't swat him away. Instead, Sam leaned heavily into his grip, head resting on his shoulder.

"Hey… hey…" Dean said. Sam leaned his whole weight on Dean. "Easy there."

"Sorry," Sam mumbled.

Dean wrapped one arm around Sam's torso. "I've got you. Let's go. Into the car."

They staggered down the hallway. Dean kept his grip firm on Sam, practically lugging him along. Sam was breathless by the time they reached the lobby, and as they crossed the parking lot, Sam shook like a leaf.

"Break…" Sam whispered.

Dean stopped, and let Sam catch his breath.

It hurt Dean to the bone to watch Sam so helpless. The tall 22-year old shivered through his heavy layered clothing, blinking rapidly to keep himself awake. His face was pale, and deep circles underlined his eyes. There was fragility in his posture – a mixture of weakness, exhaustion and trepidation.

Dean gripped Sam tighter.

After a minute, Sam said," Okay."

They started the trek to the Impala. As they crossed the street, Sam said, "I'll be fine if you just let me rest. We really don't need to do this."

"You keep telling yourself that," Dean muttered.

Sam's gaze dropped. He felt weak and achy, and his throat hurt bad.

Maybe Dean was right.

Maybe the doctor could prescribe him something to make him feel less shitty.

Accepting his fate, Sam leaned deeper into the crook of his brother's shoulder, and let Dean take the lead.

….

"He's lost five pounds since his last visit," the nurse remarked.

Sam stared listlessly out into space. Dean frowned, and tried to quell the worry bubbling in his gut.

"We haven't visited in a while." Dean was trying to convince the nurse as much as he was trying to convince himself. "…and he's had all of these growth spurts. I mean, when did we last come, five years ago?" Dean tried to laugh.

The nurse hummed. "Only one year, actually."

Dean's eyes shot to Sam. Sam shrugged. "Jessica made me." He winced at her name, and his gaze went back to the ground, chin huddled in his sweater.

"Well… you know, Sam's been exercising a lot more," Dean said. "College students always gain weight, don't they? Freshman fifteen…" Dean knew he was rambling, but his nerves were shot to hell. He kept repeating in his mind _Sam doesn't have cancer, Sam doesn't have cancer, Sam doesn't have cancer._

It wasn't helping. Dean still felt like vomiting.

"I'm sure he's fine," The nurse said. "Follow me."

She led them to the doctor's room, and Dean sat heavily onto the plastic chairs. He graciously allowed Sam to take the leather one, but Sam didn't seem to notice. His younger brother all but collapsed into the chair, and snuggled up in a sideways position, cheek pressed against the head.

Dean stared at his fingernails. He'd chewed them raw.

Sam didn't have cancer.

It took almost fifteen minutes for Doctor Jack to enter the room. Dean had been staring at a _Genital Herpes_ pamphlet when the door opened. The doctor was a middle-aged man with gray-blond hair and a clipboard in his hand.

Sam straightened up when the doctor came, but his head still lolled, as if it was too heavy for his body to hold up.

"Sam Winchester," Doctor Jack greeted. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Sam grumbled.

"Your brother… he mentioned you fainted on the phone?" Doctor Jack glanced over his computer.

Sam glared at Dean like he'd committed a crime. Then he turned back to the doctor, and said, "I was just feeling sick. The flu or something. It isn't a big deal."

"He has bruises," Dean blurted.

" _Dean,_ " Sam hissed.

Doctor Jack didn't look fazed. He typed something onto his computer, then turned on his swivel chair. He faced Sam with serious, concerned eyes. "Sam. You're right. It could just be the flu. But it's important that you tell me everything." His fingers returned to the keyboard. "How have you been feeling lately?"

"Tired," Sam offered.

"Any other details?"

Sam dug the scuff of his shoe into the ground. "Headaches, I guess."

"Nosebleed. Vomiting," Dean said. "And night sweats."

"Night sweats?" Sam demanded.

Dean wasn't about to tell Sam that he'd researched it on Google, so instead, he opted for a shrug and a firm, tight-lipped nod. The doctor frowned, and Dean's stomach sunk deeper into his gut. He pushed aside the nausea. After a moment, the doctor closed his computer, and turned to face Sam. "How about I see those bruises?"

Sam hugged his torso protectively. "Why?"

"I'd just like to see them," the doctor said quietly. "Do you mind?"

Sam looked like he wanted to bolt, but Sam had always had a thing for pleasing people. Nodding, Sam lifted his shirt, and showed off his colorful bruises. Dean looked away, unable to watch. The bruises tormented him, made him feel like a shitty brother.

"I see," the doctor said in a rather grave tone. He reached his hand out and touched one of the bruises. Sam jumped a feet in the chair.

"Sorry," the doctor said. "Didn't mean to startle you."

Dean scowled at the doctor, but the doctor didn't seem to notice. He pressed on the bruises a few times, and then made some notes on his clipboard. "How has your throat been?" the doctor asked.

Sam looked surprised. "Uh… it aches a little. Hurts when I swallow."

"Any infections?"

"No."

"Does it burn when you urinate?"

Sam blushed, and shook his head. "No."

The doctor asked a few more question, and then shut off his computer.

Dean couldn't resist asking. "Is he okay? He's fine right? Just the flu?" He had a tendency to babble when he was nervous.

The doctor smiled reassuringly, but it looked nakedly fake. "We can't know anything until the blood test results come back."

"Blood test results?" Dean demanded. "What're the results?"

The doctor laughed lightly. "He has to _take_ the blood test first. I can let you know by tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow?" Dean asked faintly. He had to wait a whole freaking day to know if his Sammy was safe and sound? This didn't sit well with Dean, but he had a feeling beating the doctor up wasn't going to get him any further on his quest. Settling back in his seat, Dean repeated, _Sam doesn't have cancer_ five times in his head like a mantra.

Because there was no way.

The doctor signed off on a sheet of paper, and handed it to Dean. "The blood test lab is just down the hallway to your right."

"Thanks," Dean said, staring at the pink slip. He held out his arm in case Sam needed help getting up, but Sam managed to stand on his own, forcing himself to push past the exhaustion in his bones. He smiled weakly at the doctor.

"I hope you feel better," the doctor said. "I really do."

"Thank you," Sam said.

Dean ushered Sam out of the door, not wanting to stay in the clinical room for longer than necessary. But just as they were leaving, Dean glanced back. He saw the doctor frowning at his clip board, a sad, resigned look on his face. Dean swallowed, sweat breaking out on his neck, and hurried Sam out into the hallway.

Sam didn't have cancer.

Dean's hand crumpled the pink slip.

He was sure of it.


End file.
